


Sleeping

by macgyvershe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, For jinglebellfic, John's POV, Love, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Watching his lover sleep, birthday gift, forever lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:36:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macgyvershe/pseuds/macgyvershe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is watching John sleep. It's really not boring at all. John watches Sherlock sleep and it's such a blessing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jinglebellfic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=jinglebellfic).



> This is a birthday present for jinglebellfic.

Sherlock looked at John sleeping. His sleeplessness was now a good thing. Watching John was endlessly interesting and revealing. He often made little noises. Sometimes, breathy sighs. More often than not, he reached for and touched Sherlock. As if to assure himself that Sherlock was there.

Marveling at the textures of John’s skin. The color changes in his fawn/grey/ golden hair. How it caught the moonlight, the sunlight, the lamp light and reflected back into Sherlock’s eyes. Gently, Sherlock pulled the duvet down, eyes roaming over the vast expanse of John’s epidermis. This was his now. He had mapped and explored it, yet it still drew him in. He could touch John’s body now when and wherever he chose and wasn’t that more than mildly thrilling?

John could touch him too. That left Sherlock mind-numbingly silly and light headed/hearted. That John wanted to touch him. Needed to touch him. 

He drew the duvet back over John, seeing the coolness of the ambient air was discomforting. He placed himself closer so that his own body heat would warm his lover. Slowly, stealthily he brought his arm beneath John’s pillowed head, his other arm encircling his smaller torso. It was so strange that he fit so well, as if John’s sole purpose was to fill those long arms, that warm embrace. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. His other senses taking over. Feeling John’s warm breath, the rhythmic movement of his rib cage. The strong beating of his valiant heart. Valiant? Why, of course, there could be no other way to describe John’s heart. Full of courage and determination. That was John. The heat from his body, the scent of his skin. The sensual scent of his genitalia. Sherlock basked in all the incoming data. Overlaid it with prior data and cross-referenced it with the years of information that held a special place in the on-going, expansive wing of the Mind Palace that was devoted to all things John.

Of a sudden, Sherlock felt wet warmth upon his cheeks. He reached up feeling the hot tears trailing down his face. Joy. This was something that John had taught him. Joy, so overwhelming and inescapable that it spilled out into the real world and let everyone know that you were so immured in its grasp. He wiped the wet joy away. Tears might wake John and that would not do.

John nestled into the space beneath Sherlock’s long neck. Sherlock felt the joy burden his heart again, move it to a transcendence of feeling. Feelings were not part of his DNA. They were never part of his long list of incredible skill sets. He learned about feelings from John. Feelings changed him in tiny ways, in voluminous ways. Sometimes he railed against the coming of feelings. Knowing that if he gave them up, it would be like giving John up. He would never do that.

John was all and everything to Sherlock. His life before diminished every day. Replaced, supplanted by John’s every breath, eye blink, smile and chiding word. John fit into his arms, had grown like a huge oak tree, into and around his heart. To move John a few centimeters in any direction was to bring Sherlock to that same position. Joined at the heart, Sherlock would have it no other way. He was changed, of course he was, yet he would never go back to the solitary life, the soulless life, the sad life of before. If tears and feelings and cuddles in the bed were his fate. Then he gladly succumb to them; embrace them as he embraced John.

Sherlock felt John slide a leg in between his, claiming him. Sherlock smiled, touching his lips to John’s fair hair, kissing his crown. Outside the rains of winter began to fall. Sherlock told each passing drop of water just how much he loved John Hamish Watson. As the rain danced upon the roof, he knew beyond knowing that they probably already knew that. That his love for John permeated the world, the universes, in every direction. Holding John, he let sleep find him, looking for John’s dream so he could share it with him.


	2. John's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sleeps. John awakens to find his lover near.

Eyes fluttering, John awoke slowly, encased in a warm Sherlock Holmes. Taking a deep breath, he saw that his sweetheart had finally succumbed to sleep. His smile broadened. It was hard as hell to get Sherlock to go to sleep, but once there he slept like the preverbal stone. You could detonate a thermo-nuclear device and it would barely make him flinch.

“Loo.” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear. “Loo, loo, loo,” he sang. Those magic words ingrained into the outer halls of the Mind Palace, would allow John to extricate himself for the short flight to the loo to relieve his straining bladder.

Finishing his wash up, John slipped back into their bed. Eyes caressing the long, lithe form that his consulting lover would always be. The only one in the world, John smiled and nestled in behind Sherlock. Becoming the big spoon. Sherlock hummed and snuggled backwards draping long legs around John's.

Gobsmacked, John closed his eyes breathing in his lovers scent, not believing he had found the love of his life without looking. Running fingers through silky strands of thick, curly dark hair, he reminded himself how blessed he was. The massive genius brain beneath those curls loved him and cherished him; could not live without him. How often did that happen in this cynical, bitter, worn out world?

Tears of adulation moistened John’s eyes and he made to wipe them away. As if Sherlock was somehow aware of those tears, Sherlock turned in bed and gathered John into his arms. Pressed him into a secure and loving embrace, John nestled in.

John had been in love and its second cousin lust, and all the many stages of both these radical emotions. This though, this thing with Sherlock, this was something unique. There had to be a new word for it. It was a keenness, edgy dangerous and at the same time so comfortable that one ached when it was not there. Sherlock was just so many things for John, but only for him. The consulting dick did not suffer fools, did not tolerate the criminal class, would snort and sniff at the Yarders. Yet for John he would suffer much, sacrifice all and love unconditionally. Those words one rarely associated with Sherlock Holmes. Who knew within that hard carapace, that outer impenetrable shell there existed an inner caramel core? All melty and meringue-like.

John traced those perfectly formed lips with a gentle finger. Super soft and sexier than any he had ever experienced and he had experienced a boatload of lips in his short career as Three Continents Watson. John remembered his sexploits in Uni and out of it. His board expanse of willing females and males who found his warm heart and excellent worldly expertise in bed a total turn on. He had never been a heart breaker. That was not his style. John would love them and leave them wanting so much more. 

Now he could not get enough of his consulting lover. He never tires of finding new and exciting ways to surprise and fascinate the unsurprisable and unbeguileable Sherlock. Life was never boring with his world famous berk, yet there was not a moment that went by without John counting his tall, terrible and terrifically amorously challenged consulting detective genius as a true blessing. 

John closed his eyes, home and safe, sleep tugged at his soul. Life was phenomenal. The burning heat from Sherlock’s body, siren-like, called him to future adventures, happy sexy times and a passion that would last twenty lifetimes.

John dreams of Sherlock’s tiny smiles, his tender touches, his orgasmic rumbles of baritone delight.

Sherlock possessively cradles John’s head in his overly large hand.

Everywhere the sounds of London mute to near extinction. The shadows lurk and linger, yet nothing can touch the lovers. Lovers the likes of which the poets praise endlessly. Their love more substantial than the gravity that binds us to the earth. Bound to each other by sensations that we can only imagine and hope to understand in our elder days.

Lovers forever never parted. Forever and always, side by side. Perfect in their passion. Passionate in their every desire.


End file.
